


A House of Dust and Memory

by Dr_Madwoman



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1934, F/M, Other, a household crumbling around the edges, and one normal person thrust into it, dubious intentions towards a minor, implied past relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Madwoman/pseuds/Dr_Madwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which young Sophie Lang returns to the house where her mother and father met, and there encounters the Dowager Countess of Grantham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sensitivebore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/gifts).



“You’ve got your shawl?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“And extra stockings? It’s a bloody marsh in that part of Yorkshire this time of year, and it won’t do to get your feet damp.”

“They’re right here, Mama.”

“Good. Your nightgown?”

“You packed it just now, Mama.”

“Right.”

Sophie Lang hid her smile as her mother prowled alongside her bed, arms folded firmly over her bosom and her lips pressed tight in anxiety. The girl didn’t quite understand why her mother was so fretful- she was only going away for a week, two at most, and Downton Village was hardly the far end of the earth- but she took it as a sign of love, and bore up accordingly.

“Everything will be fine, Mama. Cousin Alfie will see me back in one piece, I’m sure.”

“He’d better,” Mama said darkly. “His life rather depends on it.”

Sophie laughed and flipped her Da’s old suitcase shut, doing up the clasps with quick fingers. Her mother seemed to deflate at the sight and rounded the foot of Sophie’s bed to take the girl in her arms.

“God, why did I ever agree to let you do this? I’ll be out of my mind until you’re back.” She murmured, her arms tight around her daughter’s back. Sophie smiled fondly and gave her mother a squeeze, breathing in her familiar scent.

“I want you to promise me that you’ll not talk to any of that family in Downton, Sophie. If any of them are in the village, you’re not to speak to them. Don’t you even look them in the eyes- just keep your head down.”

Sophie frowned, puzzled; for her entire life her mother and father had gone to great lengths to impress upon her that there was no  difference between her and a Duchess, save for circumstance. To hear Mama demanding this sort of deference from her was odd.

“I thought you said all that bobbing and cringing belongs in the Dark Ages?” she asked, and Mama sighed and let her go.

“It’s not because of that. Just stay clear of them, understood?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard- I’ll be with cousin Daisy and the baby for most of the time. Can’t imagine any of their sort dropping by for tea.” Sophie teased. Mama just shook her head, looking sad, and reached up to tuck a lock of Sophie’s hair behind her ear.

“If there is trouble, find Mrs. Hughes. She’ll look out for you.”

“Mama, it’s not a snake-pit!”

Her mother froze, opened her mouth as if to say something, and closed it again, eyes troubled. She turned away, tucked a few last things into Sophie’s carpet bag.

“Come along, your train leaves soon.”

Sophie took up her bag and borrowed suitcase and trailed after her mother as she stepped into the living area. Da was crouched in front of one of the bookcases and he looked around at them as they came in; and Sophie saw he was almost as tense as Mama.

“You’ve got everything, Mouse?”

“Yes. Mama acts like I’m moving in with ‘em, the way she fusses.” Sophie smirked; her mother shot her a glare.

“Pardon me for worryin’ about the wellbeing of my only child.” She snapped, and Da reached out to touch her waist as he stood.

“Easy, Sarah.”

He had a few books in his big worn hand, and Sophie smiled as he passed them to her for her inspection; brand bloody new, the lot of them, volumes Yeats and Tennyson and a crisp copy of _Dracula._ She looked up to find her father peering sadly at her, his smile faint.

“You ought to have your own copies, seeing as you’re going out on your own for the first time.” He murmured.

“Aw, Dada, thank you.”

She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat as her father leaned forward to kiss her brow, there and gone again in a moment.

“Come on, Mouse- your mother’s right, you’ve a train to catch.”

The three of them donned their coats and hats, Sophie pausing to slip Da’s gifts into her bag and take one last look around their tiny flat before following her parents out the door. Da took the suitcase at once, despite her protests, and offered his free hand to her mother. They walked arm in arm together, as they had done for as long as Sophie could remember, and the sight was a fond one for her.

The walk to the train station was a quiet one, none of the Langs wanting to break the fragile peace. As they entered the chaos of the station, however, Sophie’s heart thundered in excitement, and it was all she could do to keep from dashing to her train- _her_ train, truly, as neither her mother nor her father would be with her on this trip. She would miss them, certainly, but one could hardly think on that _now,_ with so many others rushing about to places unknown and her about to join them!

“I can manage, Da, thank you.”

She accepted the suitcase from her father’s hand and stood uncertainly before her parents, exhilarated and frightened. Mama’s eyes were glistening, and suddenly Sophie found herself being drawn back into her mother’s strong arms, face hidden against her shoulder. A moment later and Dada was there too, his arms around them both with Sophie squashed between, just as they used to do when she was tiny.

“Remember what we’ve told you.” Mama whispered, her voice thick.

“Keep safe.” Dada murmured. Sophie’s eyes stung and she swallowed hard, determined to keep face before the strangers swarming about them (there were, she noticed, several girls her own age glancing their way). She was sixteen, nearly grown, and tears were for children.

“I will.” What else could she say? She could hardly ask the same of them. Sophie shifted a bit, and her parents reluctantly released her. Mama gave a lopsided smile and touched Sophie’s cheek.

“My brave bobbin. Give my love to your cousin.”

“I will Mama.”

She kissed them both and walked to her compartment with her head held high, determined not to look back, knowing she’d never make it in with her dignity intact if she did. She made it all the way to her seat in the cramped second class compartment before she broke, throwing open a window and leaning out to see her parents standing there, so small in the smoke and madness. Her mother was crying, Sophie saw, and her father had an arm around her waist. They waved when they saw her, and Sophie waved back as the train lurched forward and began to carry her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All recognizable characters and locations are not mine; I am, however, the narrative-guardian of one Sophie Angela Lang, aged sixteen years, two months and four days. Please don't tell her parents I'm sticking her in Downton. Thank you.


	2. Part II

Her first day with Cousin Alfie and his family was a maelstrom of noise and confusion and little dark-haired O’Briens, themselves a small storm of rollick and shout and grabbing hands. Alfie looked knackered, plainly put, but his pride in his little clan was evident, even when the twins – Beryl and Young Sarah, Sophie thought- made a lunge for his knees and nearly sent him sprawling.

“You’re a bloody god-send, Soph, you really are.” He said earnestly, wading through his brood to clasp Sophie’s shoulder. She grinned at him and drew herself up, pleased at the praise. There was a certain, bone-deep pride in having come across Yorkshire to help a family-member in need, a sense of usefulness that lending a hand in the family shop just couldn’t provide.

“I’m glad to do it, Alfie- I’m jus’ glad I don’t have to do the cookin’.” Sophie said, and meant it. There’d be a riot of some kind, if the kids ever had to eat what she made.

Over the next few days Sophie settled into the rhythm of her cousin’s household and got the feel of her new duties; primarily her hours were spent minding her little cousins and getting the washing and cleaning done, occasionally tip-toeing into the main bedroom to visit Cousin Daisy and the new baby. Alfie’s wife was a little dark-haired woman, sweet-tempered and sturdy, forever busy with a baby or another order of jams and pastries. It was jarring to see her abed, pale and still and a bit gaunt; wee William’s birth had been taxing on her. At the end of the first week the exhausted mother was strong enough to sit up in bed on her own, her son snuggled against her breast. She smiled wanly at Sophie’s somewhat bedraggled appearance, pitying and fond in one, and said,

“I’m hopin’ they’re not too wild, Miss Sophie- they’re a handful at the best of times, and even when I’m at my strongest they keep me runnin’.”

Sophie thought it odd that her cousin’s wife insisted on addressing her as ‘miss’, even though they were family and Sophie was the younger; but then, Daisy had worked under Mama ages and ages ago, and perhaps that deferential habit had worked its way into Daisy’s brains and refused to come out. Oddness aside she reassured the older woman that, no, they were doing alright, though the children missed seeing their Mummy. Daisy’s great brown eyes welled up with maternal tears at that, and Sophie was rather at a loss as she sobbed and blessed every one of their precious little heads.

It was something of a relief when Alfie came home that evening, whistling contentedly to himself as he ducked through the door and greeted his children.

“Blimey, you look a sight!” he observed, glancing at Sophie as she slowly made her way into the front room, her muscles aching from a day of chores and chasing.

“The twins were more spirited than usual.” Was all she said, and she dropped into a chair.

“There’s still time enough for you to slip down into the village proper, if you need some air,” Alfie said kindly, sitting across from her with Young Sarah industriously clawing her way over his shoulder. “From what I’ve heard the lads here are already whisperin’ about the red-haired girl come visitin’.”

Sophie tried to hold off on sneering.

“Count yourself lucky that my Da isn’t here to hear such talk- he’d have palpitations for sure.”

Alfred only chuckled and swung his daughter down to the floor, standing and striding for the stove to begin supper.

“Probably better I don’t encourage you anyway, when it comes to lads.”

Sophie wholeheartedly agreed. She sat with her chin propped on her fist and sighed, her eyes wearily sliding shut. It was, for once, quiet in the O’Brien cottage- she’d gotten a bit short with the little cousins today and told them all Dracula would come stuff them in a sack for his supper if they didn’t shut their heads. While Sophie felt guilty for scaring them, she couldn’t deny that the tactic was an effective one. She sat without seeing and listened to the sounds of Alfred cooking, the low male murmur of his voice as he talked to Johnny and Tim, the hiss of food in the pan.

It all made Sophie think of her Mama and Dada, side by side at the kitchen counter as they peeled and diced and stirred. They’d be cooking right about now, she was sure, and maybe Dada would start up a song while he minded the stove and maybe Mama would join in, high and low together.

“Dad! Dad, why’s Soph cryin’?”

Sophie sat bolt upright and opened her eyes and mouth, ready to snap at Davy that she was _not_ crying, where did he get off saying things like that- but oh, her cheeks were wet and her throat hurt, and Sophie realized she wasn’t just crying, she was on the verge of all out _blubbing_.

“Oh, bloody hell.” She choked, scrambling for her handkerchief.

“Dad, Sophie swore!” yelped Beryl.

“Don’t snitch, Beryl!” Eliza called from under the table.

“Hey, that’s enough now! You lot, outside.”

Alfred gave his offspring a stern stare until they all scurried like mice out the door, leaving him alone with his young kinswoman. Kindly, he laid his hand on Sophie’s shaking shoulder and crouched beside her chair.

“I remember my first time away from home. It was all a grand adventure, I thought, right until I had a moment to myself. Hit me like a fist to the gut, it did.”

Sophie whimpered behind her handkerchief, too humiliated to raise her head but too lonesome to play at toughness. She never thought being alone could _hurt_.

“I didn’t think it would set on so sudden.” She whispered, forcing the words out around the lump in her throat. She felt raw on the inside, like she’d been gouged up and left out in the elements; it struck her, then, that she was clean on the other side of Yorkshire, far from her parents and their strong hands, their gentle smiles. Something could happen, anything, and she wouldn’t know in time, or they wouldn’t, and none of them would be together if a bad thing happened and

“I jus’- I jus’ want to hear ‘em. Telegrams aren’t the same.”

“They aren’t.” Alfred agreed, patting her hand and giving her his handkerchief when hers got too damp to be useful. Thoughtfully, he said,

“Do Aunt Sarah and Uncle Andrew have a telephone?”

“No.” Sophie said thickly, dabbing at her stinging eyes. “We don’t really have anyone to call, as letter or telegrams will do for distance. Everyone else we need to talk to is a walk away.”

“Do they know anyone with a telephone?”

“The people two doors down have had one for ages- Da went to them to call the nurse when Mama was laboring with me.”

Alfred nodded and a sly sort of look came over his face then, and Sophie was comforted, just a little, as she’d seen a similar expression on her mother’s face too often to count.

“How’d you like to come up to Downton with me one of these days?”

“Eh? What’s that got to do with anythin’?”

“There’s a telephone in the butler’s office, and I might be able to convince him to let you call home.”

“D’you think he would? Only Da’s told me stories about Mr. Carson- it’s still Mr. Carson up there, yes?”

“It’ll always be Mr. Carson.” Alfred said wryly.

“But he’s so stern- will he let a stranger use it?”

“If he won’t, we’ll talk to Mrs. Hughes and she will.” Alfred said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Sophie sniffed, and swallowed hard, the knot inside her chest easing some.

“It’s settled, then. You’ll send your parents a telegram, get the number for the neighbors’ phone from them, and tell ‘em you’ll be callin’ soon. How’s that?”

Tremulously, Sophie smiled.

“Well…I always was a bit curious about the big house. It’s where Mama and Dada met an’ all. Why not?” she said, and hiccuped.

Alfred grinned and patted her back, silently relieved the floodgates were closed.

“There we are, then! Now go round up the babies- I’ll get back to supper, before Daisy comes out and mauls me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have no idea as to the extent of the telephone among working-class households in 1930s England. Don't kill me.


	3. Part III

Sophie rose early one cool June morning, shaking the sleep from her head and dressing quickly in her cramped room, careful not to tread on creaking boards or jostle the bedside table for fear of rousing the pack too soon. She wondered, as she dragged a comb through her tousled curls, if her parents were about the same business back home; her Da helping her mother pin up her hair with careful hands, Mama fussing with his tie and cuffs.

With luck, she would be talking to them soon.

Quiet as a wraith Sophie sidled out of her room and into the narrow hall, meeting a bleary-eyed Alfie in the kitchen- to her surprise Daisy was with him, bundled in her dressing gown with baby William tucked up in her arms.

“Are you _sure_ you can manage the babies today, Daisy?” Alfie prodded, anxious as a mother hen as he hovered over his tiny wife. Daisy gave one her little grins and patted his arm, somehow in high spirits despite the ungodly hour.

“’Course I can, you goose! I’ve managed for longer with no help, I’ll last!”

Sophie smiled groggily and waited until Alfred had said his goodbyes to his wife and the new little fellow, falling into step beside him as he set out. She had a job of keeping up, taking two steps for one of his, but the walk was pretty enough, as the sun crept slowly over the horizon.

“So people in service have to rise this early every day? Mama wasn’t exaggerating?”

“Sometimes earlier, if there’s a to-do or important guests about.” Alfie grumbled, scrubbing at his eyes as they walked. Sophie nearly shuddered and silently gave thanks that she, at least, didn’t have to rise before dawn to get to school or help in the shop back home.

Alfred, like all O’Briens, wasn’t much for chatter before breakfast and so the remainder of the walk up was spent in silence, leaving Sophie to her own thoughts as they passed out of the village and took to the winding path that led up to the estate. She longed for her book, though she’d read _Dracula_ nearly half a dozen times already- she was always very fond of the bit with Jon Harker and the count’s lethal harem, and while trees and grass and all were pretty to look at they couldn’t quite hold a candle to voluptuous vampire women with dishonorable intentions.

“Wake up, you, an’ have a look.”

Alfie reached over and flicked at Sophie’s ear and she started, flung her head up-

“Oh, _blimey_!” she gasped, and she nearly stumbled over her own feet.

Downton Abbey rose up like a mountain, all brooding stone and shining windows, and the air caught in Sophie’s chest at the great impossible beauty of it.

“Mama never mentioned that it looked like _this_!”

Alfred grinned at the gobsmacked look on his young cousin’s face and plucked at her sleeve, leading her around the side to the kitchen yard.

“Don’t let it turn your head- you’ll be seeing the kitchens and servants’ hall mostly. That’ll be the parts that interest you, anyway.”

Sophie followed, still gaping like a country bumpkin as they stepped into the kitchen yard- _the_ kitchen yard, that figured so much in her father’s stories- and she tripped after Alfie through the kitchen door. It was like being swallowed by a leviathan or something, and the girl gave an involuntary shudder as her cousin led the way into the kitchens, a scullery girl dashing by with a basket of firewood in her arms. There were almost half a dozen other low-ranking servants afoot, all of them greeting Alfie and scarcely sparing Sophie a curious glance as they rushed about.

The kitchen was larger than any Sophie had been in, and well appointed, but she found herself shaking off some of the wonder that had overcome her outside; Downton Abbey looked like something out of a fairy tale, certainly, but once you got into the guts of a castle and saw what and who made it tick- well, it laid all that mysticism to rest, didn’t it?

At the center of all this activity stood a woman, white-haired and stern, who conducted the scurrying maids and hallboys about their work with a calm professionalism that hinted at long years on the job. Sophie knew at once, without sound or signal from her cousin, that this was Mrs. Hughes, long-standing housekeeper of Downton Abbey and guardian of all below stairs. She turned as they approached and looked at Sophie with keen blue eyes, hands folded before her in a businesslike way.

“And who is this, Mr. O’Brien? I am not conducting interviews for maids today, as well you know.”

Alfie nudged Sophie forward for Mrs. Hughes’ inspection, calming her nerves with a pat on the shoulder.

“She’s not here for a job, Mrs. Hughes; this is my cousin Sophie, the one I told you about. She’s been helping with the little ones these last few days.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Sophie blurted, and stuck out her hand for want of anything better to do. The older woman looked down at her hand and slowly shook it, her eyes traveling to Sophie’s anxious young face and lighting there. After a moment, she smiled.

“Well, I must say it’s good to know that Miss O’Brien was successful in tracking down Mr. Lang, in the end. You are the result, I presume?”

Sophie blinked at that, but managed a pleased little grin; it seemed as though her parents had made something of a stir, all those years ago. Trust no one in this place to forget a story like that!

“Yes, ma’am. They’ve been married near seventeen years, now, come the end of June. They still dote on one another, for all that.”

“Wonders never cease,” said Mrs. Hughes, with a faint smile. “And I gather this is the first time you’ve ever been away from them?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sophie replied, her voice sounding rather small in the rush of kitchen sounds, and the old woman gave her a sympathetic look, which Sophie did not mind coming from her.

“It can be hard, and for many it doesn’t grow easier to leave home; be glad of it.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, and for s split second Sophie thought that she could see something dark moving behind the housekeeper’s eyes. It was gone but a second later, and Mrs. Hughes roused herself and clapped her hands together, as if the banish the moment.

“We’ve no time to waste, then. I will show you to Mr. Carson’s office, Miss Lang, and leave you to it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I can’t say I know why you’re being so kind, as my parents haven’t been back here in over a decade, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Lang. Now come along.”

The housekeeper set out, striding from the kitchen into the servants’ hall, leaving Sophie to glance around to bid Alfie goodbye and find him bent over the stove already; shrugging, the girl went after Mrs. Hughes and soon entered into the hallowed sanctuary of the legendary Mr. Carson.

The room was more or less as she imagined it; ferociously neat, close, and dignified all around, with nary a book out of place or a pencil askew. Mrs. Hughes entered as though she owned the place, which immediately solidified Sophie’s already healthy respect for the woman, and gestured towards the immense desk and the telephone perched there.

“Everything is in order, Miss Lang; do try to be a bit brisk, as Mr. Carson will soon be needing his office again.”

“I will, ma’am, thank you.”

Mrs. Hughes nodded, turned to exit the office, and then paused at the doorway. She glanced back at Sophie.

“Have you had breakfast yet, dear?”

Sophie blinked, realized she hadn’t, and opened her mouth to say as much when Mrs. Hughes shook her head.

“You can’t have, not if you came with Mr. O’Brien. I’ll have a tray made up for you then.”

And with that she was gone. Sophie looked thoughtfully after her, and resolved to tell her mother that the old housekeeper was no longer the interfering harpy she’d told her about- if, indeed, she ever had been.

Cautiously, the girl edged around the great desk until she came to the worn leather chair, absently admiring the fine dark wood of it as she pulled the chair back. She seated herself, enjoying a momentary blasphemous thrill as she settled, and reached for the telephone. Something caught her eye, stilling her hand, and Sophie turned her head; there, by the inkwell, was a small framed photograph of Mrs. Hughes, dressed prettily with an imp’s smile teasing at the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, bloody _hell_.” She whistled, grinning madly. “Wonders never cease, surely.”

Chuckling to herself, Sophie lifted the telephone receiver from its stand and put it to her ear. She jabbed at the wheel and dialed, giving the neighbors’ number to the chipper operator with a thrill of anticipation.

She waited, breathlessly, as the operator put her through. And then, coming down over miles of air and land and water, she heard her mother’s voice.

“Hullo? Sophie?”

“Mama!”

“Oh, darlin’, there you are!”

Sophie felt tears gathering in her eyes and swiped at them in irritation, not wanting to melt into a useless puddle and worry her parents.

“It’s so good to hear your voice, Mama. Is Dada there too?”

There came a shuffling from the other side.

“Good morning, Mouse.”

“How are you keeping up, bobbin?”

Sophie propped her chin on her hand and imagined her parents standing in the living room of the Stuarts, heads bowed close together over the phone so they could both hear. She smiled.

“Oh, well enough. Can’t imagine I’ll ever want children of my own after this, but they’ve not torn me to pieces just yet.” Sophie said flippantly. She turned the conversation onto them, the shop, the doings of their town as a whole, and just sat and listened to their voices for a time, a sense of peace working down into her as they talked and corrected one another and demanded to know if she was eating enough, sleeping enough, if she was safe and happy.

It wasn’t quite home, but it eased the lonely ache in her belly.

“You’re doin’ so well darlin’, seeing to the house and your cousins all on your own.”

“We’re proud of you, girl, and don’t you forget that.”

A tremulous smile worked its way over Sophie’s face and she couldn’t help the wave of warmth that come over her then, bone-deep and nourishing. If there was a thing on earth better than the pride of her parents, she didn’t know of it.

Before she could open her mouth to reply there came a bustling outside the office door, which swung in to admit Mrs. Hughes, who bore a laden tray before her with ease.

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Lang, but I thought you’d like to take your food in here.”

Sophie felt the floor go out from under her when things went dangerously quiet on the other end of the line.

“Is that Elsie Hughes I hear?” Mama asked, her voice flat.

“Er.”

“Where exactly are you callin’ from, Sophie?”

“Ah. About that…”

“Sophie Lang, I told you to stay away from that bloody house! What in God’s name are you thinking!”

“I was homesick, Mama,” Sophie said plaintively. “An’ none of the neighbors here had a working telephone I could’ve used!”

Mrs. Hughes cast a curious look her way as she settled the tray nearby, equal parts amused and concerned.

“Jus’ get out of there as soon as you’re done, Sophie.” Mama sighed, suddenly sounding tired.

“And stick close to Mrs. Hughes, if you can.” Dada added, and she could tell by his voice that he was nearly as worried as Mama.

“I will, I promise.”

After a few minutes more of reassuring her mother and taking her admonishment and warnings Sophie carefully placed the phone back on its stand and sank back into Mr. Carson’s chair.

“Blimey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belatedly realized that I have made Sophie a stereotypical vampire obsessed teenager oops.


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I love it or hate it. Either way, continues directly from where the last one left off.

Mrs. Hughes –or was it Mrs. Carson, now?-smiled in a way that suggested she knew exactly how the conversation had gone and set the breakfast tray down before Sophie. Tender as a mother Alfie had done up a plate exactly as Sophie liked- toast and rashers and a perfect egg, with sweet tea to wash it down.

“Thank you, ma’am. Shall I go back to the kitchen?”

“That’s not necessary, Miss Lang; things are always a bit wild before the family has their breakfast, and I think it best you eat in here, out of the fray.”

Sophie glanced down at the immaculate desk she was seated at and looked questioningly at the housekeeper.

“So long as you’re neat, what Mr. Carson doesn’t know certainly will do him no harm.”

Sophie could respect that kind of mentality, but she had surely never imagined that the stern task-master from her mother’s stories would ever allow the butler’s desk to be profaned by toast-crumbs and grease.

Maybe Da was right about Mama and her exaggerations.

Sophie’s rumbling stomach soon put to rest her lingering doubts and she fell on the food with the bottomless appetite of one still in the process of growing, moving as carefully as she could to avoid leaving evidence. Mrs. Hughes stood by and watched as she ate, which struck Sophie as odd, but she supposed it was to make sure she didn’t try to make off with something.

After a minute or two of awkward silence Sophie opened her mouth again to say something appropriately grateful and pleasant, but was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a great solid mountain of a man who could only be the famous (or infamous, if you listened to Thomas) Mr. Carson. Sophie couldn’t help but stare in awe, for although the butler was at least eighty years of age he moved with dignity and certainty, his hoary head held high and his keen eyes sweeping the room, falling on Mrs. Hughes for a fond moment before moving on to Sophie.

Mr. Carson froze just inside the door, his lips pressed tight at the sight of her. She swallowed hard and resisted the urge to dive for cover, feeling very small indeed as the butler slowly advanced towards his desk.

 “Mrs. Hughes, may I ask why there is a stranger in my office, sitting behind my desk and getting crumbs on my blotter?” the mountainous man boomed, his bushy brows raised in quiet outrage. The housekeeper looked over at him, blatantly unimpressed.

“Lower your voice, for Heaven’s sake, there’s no crime being done; Miss Lang was just finishing a call home.” She said serenely. Mr. Carson paused and turned his wizened head to pin Sophie with a searching stare. She attempted to look as upstanding as possible. The old growler took a step nearer, hand raised to his chin in contemplation.

“Miss Lang, is it? Shall I assume that you are the daughter of Andrew Lang?”

“Yes, sir.”

And something changed in those severe features, a subtle softening of the dark eyes, an easing of the muscles along the powerful jaw. For a moment, Mr. Carson looked as if he were about to smile at her.

“A good man, your father. It seems you’ve inherited his nose.”

“My mother says the same thing, sir.”

“Your mother.” Rumbled the butler, disdainfully. “Yes. Looking at you, there is no mistaking you for another woman’s child.”

Judging by his tone Mr. Carson clearly felt that this was no great thing, and Sophie had to bite the inside of her cheek to quell the ferocious desire to defend her mother. Mrs. Hughes jumped in then, perhaps sensing the potential bloodletting ahead, and said,

“Curious, isn’t it, Mr. Carson? When Mr. Lang was hired on we never once thought we would one day be speaking with his and Miss O’Brien’s daughter.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Hughes. Now, Miss Lang, if I might reclaim my seat…?”

Sophie jumped up and took the tray with her, shuffling out from behind the great desk under the butler’s intent gaze and settling into one of the less sumptuous chairs. The butler took back his throne and, interestingly, Mrs. Hughes calmly moved to settle herself on the arm of his chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. Sophie tried and failed to stifle a gleeful little smirk.

Mama was going to have a _fit_ when she found out about this.

“Mr. O’Brien tells us that you are helping around the house while Mrs. O’Brien recovers, Miss Lang. How are you finding the work?” Mrs. Hughes asked politely.

“Oh, it’s good enough. I’m glad to help Daisy and Alfie, but I’ll admit the little cousins are a bit much at times- I’m not at all used to being around so many children all at once.” Sophie admitted, balancing her tray on her knees and taking a grateful sip of tea.

“No brothers or sisters, then?”

“Gracious, no! There was talk enough with jus’ me!” Sophie laughed, and privately she gave thanks for being an only child.

“People will find anything to gossip over in a small town, I suppose.” Said Mrs. Hughes, and Sophie suspected she knew a thing or two about being the subject of town talk.

“So they will. I imagine my friends in Withernsea will lose their heads when I tell ‘em I was inside the house of a noble family; not a one of us has ever been in a place so fine.”

That caught Mr. Carson’s attention, and perhaps even teased at his professional pride; he raised his head from the ledger he had been examining and smiled faintly at the girl seated before him. Softly, Mrs. Hughes sighed in a resigned sort of way.

“I suppose that this _would_ be your first time inside a grand estate, wouldn’t it? Tell me, Miss Lang, what do you think? Does it measure up to the stories your mother and father have told you?”

“And who says the girl’s parents have told her anything of Downton?” Mrs. Hughes interjected, smiling wryly at the butler. Sophie only grinned, displaying her dimples to their best advantage, and diligently gave the expected answer.

“Oh, it’s better than I ever imagined, Mr. Carson! It’s a dizzyin’ sight to see, big and beautiful as it is! You and Mrs. Hughes must have a trial keeping it running as you do.”

The pair of them turned and smiled at one another, in a way that Sophie had seen Mama and Da do countless times, and their pride in their work and each other was almost palpable.

“It is our duty and our honor to keep the estate in the inimitable condition you see today.” Carson declared, sitting tall in his seat, his great square hand enveloping Mrs. Hughes delicate fingers. She noticed, for the very first time, the golden flash of wedding bands. Mama was going to go absolutely _mad_.

“Well, an honor for _some_ of us.” She said lightly, leaning against Mr. Carson’s shoulder. “But yes, ordeal though it is we have all managed to work wonders here, and the house’s reputation stands.”

Sophie continued to smile, and made sure to widen her eyes some to look a bit awe-struck.

“You both are like magicians, Mrs. Hughes- a Swiss watch would envy this place!”

The housekeeper chuckled and squeezed Mr. Carson’s hand, and the look on her face implied that she knew just what Sophie was up to and furthermore she knew where she’d learned it from.

“I think we’ve gotten more praise for our work in just this single morning than we have during the entirety of our time here, Mr. Carson. Miss Lang, you are most appreciative for a newcomer.”

“Well, I was taught to admire good work when I see it.” Sophie replied, guileless as an angel. She noticed that Mr. Carson was smiling properly at her now, in a way one could almost call grandfatherly.

“You are your father’s daughter, then, Miss Lang, and I am immensely relieved to see it.”

Sophie’s smile faded at those words, and she looked the butler directly in the eyes; anyone who thought to talk badly about her mother needed to be set straight.

“What d’you mean by that, sir? From what I understand my ma came away from here with a good reference from the lady of the house.”

Mr. Carson looked like he had a few opinions on that score, but Mrs. Hughes cut across whatever he was preparing to say with impeccable timing.

“He doesn’t mean anything at all by it, dear. Mr. Carson has certain rigid ideas about service, and your mother frequently clashed with them during her time here. She was an excellent worker, despite that.”

“When she wasn’t causing havoc.”

“I’d hardly call any of that havoc, Mr. Carson.”

Sophie watched the pair of them with interest, these servants who were professional and yet unprofessional all on one. Had they behaved this way when her parents were here? At any rate, it was quite the show, and Sophie found that she was enjoying herself immensely. Draining her cup and setting the tray down with care, she sat tall in her seat and cleared her throat, a polite little cough that drew her host and hostess’ attention again.

“Is the library still intact?” she asked, and almost winced. Clumsy, that, and as transparent as a threadbare sheet.

“But of course. Downton’s library has remained pristine for decades, without so much as a marauding mouse to trouble its contents.” Carson said, looking quite pleased. Sophie bobbed her head and sighed, as if relieved.

“Oh, that’s lovely. It’s a bit funny, but I’ve always felt attached to it even though I’ve never been inside; my father remembers it so fondly.” She said, just a tad wistfully. Was it her imagination, or were Mr. Carson’s eyes going soft over there?

“He was always a scholarly lad,” the old gent said, and his voice was warm. “I first saw him when he was around nine years of age, trying to heft about a tome nearly as big as he was, and looking through it as gravely as Socrates himself.”

Sophie grinned at the mental image; that was Da all over.

“Da always said that working here gave him two of the best things in his life; Mama, and time spent in the finest library he’s ever seen.”

Blimey, it seemed even Mrs. Hughes was thinking that she was laying it on thick, judging by the stare she was getting. Rather than vocalizing her disgust, however, the housekeeper glanced back at her husband and clasped her hands together.

“Perhaps you should show the girl the library, Mr. Carson- she is a guest, after all.” She said briskly, sliding from the arm of his chair with dignity. Mr. Carson nearly started, and turned an incredulous stare on his wife.

“Show her the library? Mrs. Hughes, I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

Sophie’s heart sank, and she looked between them in confusion; what could possibly be inappropriate about taking her up there?

“She hardly looks like the sort to burn the place down around us, Charles.” Mrs. Hughes said wryly, and the man spluttered at her use of his Christian name.

“That is beside the point! Besides, who will see to the arrangements for Sir Jonathan’s arrival?”

“I will. Things are calm enough now below-stairs; you’ve more than enough time to take a girl up and show her the place so dear to her father.”

Yes, thought Sophie. He absolutely had time to do that.

“I shouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone, Mrs. Hughes. You’ve already been kind enough to let me use the telephone and bring me breakfast; I really ought to go.” She said aloud, offering a small smile as she got to her feet and smoothed out her skirt. “Thank you both so much.”

Mr. Carson surged to his feet and held out a hand to stop her, something distantly related to guilt written over his craggy features.

“That will not be necessary, Miss Lang. I assure you, it would be no trouble if Mrs. Hughes were to take you up. Besides, it would be inappropriate to let a girl your age walk down to the village unattended.” He declared, and Sophie had to bite the inside of her cheek when she spied Mrs. Hughes rolling her eyes heavenward behind his back.

“You’re taking her, and that is _that_. You’ve been charging about all morning.” She snapped.

“If this is about my heart again, madam, allow me to reassure that I am the _picture_ of health and ease.” He shot back.

“Charles.”

The butler went still at the invocation, and Sophie couldn’t blame him; her mother sometimes said her name like that, low and cold and very quietly lethal. Better to not make any sudden moves and do as you’re told, in a situation like this. Carson sighed, and his great broad shoulders hunched forward just a little in defeat. He looked as though someone had killed the King.

“Very well. Come, Miss Lang.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Carson!” Sophie trilled, beaming in anticipation. Solemnly the towering man opened the door and left with all the wounded dignity he could muster. Satisfied, Mrs. Hughes smiled and patted Sophie’s shoulder as she swept by. Sophie shook her head a bit and scurried after Mr. Carson, excitement boiling hot in her veins.

What a funny pair these two were.


	5. Part V

Sophie followed Mr. Carson down the glorious hall and it seemed to her that she could not open her eyes wide enough to take in all the rich color and fine ornaments, the size and grace of everything. It was staggering, to live your life in four modest rooms above a modest shop and suddenly find yourself in the middle of all this _beauty._

Yet the corridor, with its fine paintings and intense colors and lovely useless statues and vases on little spindly tables, it was nothing at all compared to Downton’s library; Sophie had to stifle a gasp when Mr. Carson opened the doors and stood aside, revealing the vast room of scarlet and gold and laden shelves. There were easily two or three thousand books here, housed so smartly in their floor-to-ceiling shelves of handsome dark wood.

Dazed, the girl wandered over the thick rugs and let her eyes feast on everything around her, hands hanging limp at her sides.

“It’s so beautiful.” She murmured, and glanced over her shoulder to find Mr. Carson standing straight and proud just inside the doors, his smile small but distinct.

“That it is, Miss Lang. Shall we?”

She fell in beside the butler, doing her best not to picture him as one of those immense dancing bears they had over in Russia, all grave and tall and gussied up. Proud as a papa Mr. Carson led Sophie into the stillness of the library, lecturing about this or that Earl of Grantham who had acquired such and so selections of books from some other vast private collection of an aristocrat Sophie had never heard of. She listened with half an ear, gnawing at her bottom lip in longing as they passed near the wondrous shelves.

She had never seen a library as fine as this, hundreds of books just waiting quietly on the shelves and begging for the touch of a reader’s hand, and in that moment Sophie was almost sick with jealousy.

_No wonder Dada came here so often with Mama,_ she thought to herself. _If we had a library like this he’d never leave it! Neither would I, come to that._

Moving at a stately pace Mr. Carson led her around to one of the long reading tables, pausing when he noticed a half-dozen battered atlases scattered over the polished surface.

“It seems that the young master and Miss Branson were in a hurry- forgive me a moment, Miss Lang. The lady of the house likes everything to be pristine.”

“Of course, Mr. Carson. I’ll just look about some while I wait.”

“Very well- mind that you do not touch anything.”

Sophie sidled away, pointedly ignoring the silent assumption against her character in favor of wandering over to the deep red couch that dominated the sitting area. She felt warm inside at the sight of it, and could almost imagine her parents sitting there deep in the night, talking in hushed voices and gradually coming to find one another.

Sophie moved reverently along the shelves, eyes devouring the colorful rows of lovely leather spines, gilt titles winking down at her as she passed. It was beautiful, truly beautiful, enough to move a body to tears.

She reached out with careful fingertips and caressed a spine, the leather of the book buttery under her touch. Glancing over her shoulder to check that Mr. Carson was still occupied with returning the atlases to their proper place, she tipped the book out of its home and into her welcoming palm. Sophie peered at the title and found that the handsome red thing contained a treatise on Highland wildlife, oh dear, but that hardly mattered. It was one of the nicest books she’d ever held, and she couldn’t hold the dull topic against it.

“Oh, you’re a beauty,” Sophie crooned, admiring it in the brilliant light spilling in from the window. She ran her finger along the gilding of the top of the pages, surprised when it came away dusty.

“Miss Lang? Come here, if you please, I have something to show you.” Mr. Carson called, beckoning her to one of the reading tables. Sophie quickly shelved her find and hurried over, curious as a cat. Mr. Carson laid out the folder he had salvaged from one of the storerooms on the way up and  opened it, removing a few sheets of paper that looked like they’d come from a journal of some sort; these he laid down before Sophie with an air of immense satisfaction. She bent down for a look, and saw that three neat columns marched the length of the papers, names and dates and what looked like the titles of books. She glanced up at the butler.

“Sign-out sheets?”

“It is my habit to keep the logbooks from the library once they are filled, to create a record of what materials were used and to ensure that the borrowed items were returned. But look here, at the beginning of December. You may recognize the names.”

Carson pointed with a long thick finger to an entry halfway down the first page, and Sophie’s eyes obediently followed; she nearly jumped out of her stockings when she saw, and it was with great effort that Sophie stifled a happy cry.

_Andrew H. Lang, 2 nd December, 1916 – Canterbury Tales_

And then just beneath that;

_Sarah M. O’Brien, 2 nd December, 1916- Wuthering Heights_

Sophie laughed brightly, the sound of it glancing off the scarlet walls like a lost bird, and she clapped her hands in glee; beside her Mr. Carson smiled faintly, clearly pleased with himself.

“From what you have told us, this library figured rather prominently in your parents’…courtship.” He stated, letting the girl snatch the yellowed papers up for closer inspection.

“Oh, it did! Da always tol’ me that he fell in love with Mama here!” Sophie crowed, giddy as a child at Christmas. She laughed again seconds later when she spied something familiar beside the signatures of her parents on the third page. “Look here, sir!”

Obligingly the butler glanced at the rough scribble the girl had found; two needles crossed in the margin, a single thread looped around them, threaded through the eyes. It didn’t take a poet to guess at the symbolism there.

“It’s their mark,” Sophie explained excitedly. “My Da carved it into the furniture he made for Mama, the bed and the chair and my old cradle- everythin’!”

“It seems most apt.” Mr. Carson agreed, politely. Though their fraternization had been entirely inappropriate while in Lord Grantham’s employ, it was a fine thing to see the quiet progress of the Langs’ entanglement mapped out on a page, and finer still to be able to present the evidence to their daughter. He did wonder, however, how the pair had managed to find so much time to spend together in the library- it seemed a miracle that Lord and Lady Grantham had been properly dressed at all in those days, judging by the frequency of these visits.

“You may keep the papers if you like; they have served their purpose at this point, I should think.” The butler said magnanimously, and he was surprised at the rush of fondness he felt when the young miss beamed up at him.

“Thank you dearly, Mr. Carson. These are more precious than gold; I’ve not got any relics from when my ma and da were first courting.” Sophie enthused, fairly hugging the papers to her chest in happiness- these would be going in the box back home, right along with the flower crown!

Mr. Carson merely bowed his head to her, grave as could be, and Sophie awkwardly copied the movement; a handshake likely wouldn’t go over as well with the gander as it did with the goose, so to speak.

Before Sophie could open her mouth to suggest they carry on with the tour, there came a disturbance of sorts from outside the library; the tramping of several sets of feet, it sounded like, and the piping chat of children. Carson straightened up at once, his eyes flashing in alarm.

“The Dowager Countess is coming with the children. Quickly,”

Carson seized Sophie by the shoulder and turned her, gently but firmly, until her back was to the door.

“You are not to address the family, Miss Lang, or to do anything to draw attention to yourself; you are an unofficial guest and I would prefer to keep that quiet.” He said lowly, eyes darting to the doors as the voices got louder. Faintly amused, Sophie nodded and looked steadily that the table, shuffling stacks of paper and rearranging them in a businesslike fashion on the tabletop. It was an old, old trick, something she’d taken in with her mother’s milk; behave as though you _belonged_ somewhere and very often other people wouldn’t look too closely at you.

It was almost alarming how effective it could be.

The voices drew near, and Sophie could just now make out what was being said by the children.

“-they’d better be on the table!” cried one child, a boy by the sound of it.

“I’m sure they are, dearest.” Soothed a woman, honey-sweet and calm.

“I’ll wager they’re not, Mattie-darling; old Carson is always following after us with a dustpan. We’ll have to have him drag them out again. ” The other child drawled.

Of their own volition, Sophie’s eyebrows climbed nearly to her hairline, and she glanced at the butler, watching to see what he thought of that; Carson stood by unfazed, chin up and shoulders back. If he’d heard the nasty little things in the hall, he certainly gave no indication.

“Everything will be as we left it, darlings, there’s no need to kick up a fuss.”

The doors swung in, admitting two of the prettiest children one could ever hope to see; black-haired and blue-eyed, the pair of them, with features that looked as though they’d been carved from marble. They had all the warmth of marble, too, that Sophie could see already. Only a couple years younger than herself, the boy and girl walked side by side with their hands tightly laced together, their lips pursed and their eyes aloof; there was something in the lift of their chins and the laziness of their gaits that told you that they thought that the world was for them and them alone, and that all the people and things in it were to either be useful or stay out of their sight. They glanced at Carson for a moment, no longer, before letting their attention drift elsewhere. They passed without greeting him.

“Come along, Sybbie-dear.”

Sophie had never really held with the idea of striking people who were younger and smaller than oneself, but she felt that, if given an excuse and an opportunity, she wouldn’t mind taking a swing at the lad.

But in the next moment she forgot all about the children and their cold eyes, for a woman entered the library then and Sophie’s breath caught in her chest at the very sight of her. She was beautiful, but not in the way of regular women- the women of the real world couldn’t snatch the air from you and leave a sweet stabbing pain inside you just by _being_ , but this one could. She was like an apple blossom, pale and almost translucent in the morning light, her hair black as a raven’s wing against her skin, and her eyes so sad and lovely that it nearly broke Sophie’s heart to look at them. Graceful as a swan the lady drew near, her smile warm when she reached the butler.

“Hello, dear Carson. Patrolling the shelves?”

“Indeed, my lady. There were a few things in need of ordering.”

“Oh, Carson, I’ve told you time and again that it’s futile effort! Young children are forever getting into everything.” She laughed, light as spring, and turned to attend to the children again.

 Sophie kept her mouth shut and her eyes wide, looking and looking as covertly as she could at this sad, lovely woman. It was something she’d taught herself back home; someone pretty walking by was a wonder you were only allowed for a few moments at a time, so you had to fill your eyes with her while you could before she passed you and took the blessing with her. Quite without meaning to, she leaned around Mr. Carson to watch the woman go.

Something happened then; perhaps the lady had something else to say to Carson, or perhaps she felt Sophie’s intent stare on her back. For whatever reason, she paused just as she was passing by and looked again, and her great lovely eyes went wide when they fixed on Sophie. Her lips parted just a little, and she turned about.

“My God- O’Brien?” she breathed, a lily hand rising to rest over her heart. There was such a look of awe and desperate hope about her and Sophie felt her very heart ache, and she almost wanted to let the older woman believe whatever she wanted of her, if it made her happy. Yet already the fragile joy was going out of the elder woman’s face, and it was like watching a cloud drift before the sun. She murmured, as if to herself.

“It can’t be- too young, much too young…”

Swallowing hard, Sophie stepped around the flustered Carson and stood straight before the lady – the Dowager Countess of Grantham, for she could be no other.

“I-I think you must be thinking of my mother, m’lady.” She offered, her tongue curiously thick. The Dowager stared at her in a hungry sort of way, her lips trembling with emotion, those glorious eyes roaming Sophie’s face. At last the smile returned, sweet and fragile but there.

“Sophie? Little baby Sophie? Is it really you?” she asked, and Sophie did her best to mask her confusion- she’d heard a handful of stories, sure, but she’d never laid eyes on the woman in all her life.

“Have we met before, m’lady?”

The Dowager let out a tremulous laugh and stepped closer, reaching out to gather Sophie’s hands in hers. Her touch was soft and cool.

“Yes, of course we have! Years and years ago- I visited your mother in Withernsea after she was married! The last time we met you were a precious little thing crawling about her skirts; just _look_ at you now!” the older woman crooned, releasing Sophie’s hands in favor of running her fingertips lightly over the girl’s arms, beaming in joy. Dazedly, Sophie returned her smile.

“Learn somethin’ new every day.”

“Of course you don’t remember my visits- you were so tiny then, after all, and I wasn’t able to return after a while- affairs at home, and all that. Tell me, do you at least remember the gifts I sent for your birthdays?”

Sophie stared helplessly.

“Gifts, m’lady?”

The brilliant smile faltered slightly.

“Well, of course, dear! I sent dresses and toys for a few years- surely your mother told you who they were from?”

While all of this was new information to Sophie, she had a subtle idea that perhaps there were reasons why her parents never mentioned any gifts from a countess.

“My mother never really talked much about Downton.” Sophie said diplomatically, and the lady’s face fell.

“Oh. Well. I imagine that in all the fuss with the shop and your birth she quite forgot about…it’s understandable.”

The Dowager sighed, then beckoned Sophie a little closer.

“Come here, dear, step into the light so my poor old eyes can see- goodness, how like O’Brien you look!” the older woman crooned, her eyes wide and shining as she looked Sophie up and down. The Dowager Countess leaned close, one elegant hand coming up to touch the side of Sophie’s neck as she peered, somewhat nearsightedly, into her face.

“The same lips- the very same eyes! How wonderful!”

“Thank you, m’lady.” Sophie said, rather bashfully, but the lady carried on examining her as though she hadn’t spoken, her fingers cool against Sophie’s skin. The elder woman frowned faintly and narrowed her eyes in consideration.

“Everything is so similar, but the nose is altogether quite wrong. Oh, dear.” She sighed, looking put out. Without thinking Sophie reached up and touched the offending body part, the corner of her mouth turning down. She thought to ask what in the world could be wrong about it, but before she could utter a word the Dowager lit up at the sight of her hand and took it into her own, laughing over the long fingers.

“How lovely!”

Sophie let herself smile again, feeling faintly pleased; her parents made much of her as was natural, and several boys in her school had started trying to get her attention, much to her discomfort, but _this_ was new. She’d never had someone fuss over every bit of her like this, certainly not anyone like a former countess, and it was all rather heady if she was to be honest with herself.

“You are the very image of your mother, my dear Miss Lang, and I must say that it’s a joy to behold.” The Dowager concluded at last, her hands curling around Sophie’s fingers and squeezing fondly.

“I’m glad to hear it, m’lady.” Sophie said, her thoughts scattering wildly inside her head as the older woman continued to clasp her hand; she kept coming back to how like doves they looked, soft and graceful and pale.

“It’s been so long- you’re certainly not the round, merry baby I remember! I simply must know how your family is getting on, dear; won’t you join me for an early tea?”

The words fell like a bolt of lightning from the heavens; Sophie stared with round eyes, barely able to keep her mouth from dropping open in astonishment.

“M-me, m’lady? But I’m- I’m jus’ a stranger to you!”

“You’re no stranger, Sophie; you’re the child of a dear friend, and I would be amiss if I didn’t show you the proper hospitality.” The former countess corrected her, giving Sophie a stern stare before smiling playfully. “Come along; I’ll have Mr. Carson see the children back to the nursery and then have our tea sent up.”

Dazedly, Sophie allowed the venerable woman to link their arms together and start for the door. The Dowager paused long enough to look back over her shoulder and say,

“You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Carson?”

“Of course not, my lady. It will be done.”

Sophie realized with a sudden jolt that Carson had been there the entire time, still and silent as a pillar of stone. She looked back with a pang of guilt at having forgotten him, wondering if she ought to apologize, or offer an explanation; Carson was turning away from them already, though, venturing further into the library where the brats were draped over one of the couches. Sophie swallowed uneasily.

“Aren’t they a bit much for him, m’lady?”

“Oh, no, dearest! Mattie and Sybbie are perfectly well behaved children- they’re just a little indulged, that’s all.” the lady soothed, leading Sophie out of the library with nary a backward glance. Sophie winced when she heard raised voices from within.

It sounded as if the brats were a long way beyond _indulged_ \- the pair of them had the look of all out ruination, in Sophie’s opinion, and if the Crawleys wanted some suitable heirs they’d be better off locking Sybbie-dear and Mattie-darling up somewhere and starting from scratch. She knew better than to say that sort of thing out loud, of course; grandmothers could be sentimental creatures.

“Very well, m’lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we approach the meat of our story.

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable characters and locations are not mine; I am, however, the narrative-guardian of one Sophie Angela Lang, aged sixteen years, two months and four days. Please don't tell her parents I'm sticking her in Downton. Thank you.


End file.
